


Sometimes Merging

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempts at communication and the re-interpretation of zones.<br/>Like it says, about sometimes merging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Merging

**Author's Note:**

> Post TSbyBS. Should remember S2P2. Assumes a sexual relationship   
>  between Jim and Blair. '/' used for italics, NOT for Jim-speak. 
> 
> My deepest gratitude and thanks to Molly and Kimberly for their help.   
> They are not responsible for anything apart from trying to lead me to   
> the path of write-eousness. 

## Sometimes Merging

by Spyke

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

Author's disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Jim and Blair, and though   
I'm playing with them, I'm not making any money out of it.

* * *

Title: Sometimes Merging 

Author: Spyke (spyke_raven@yahoo.com) 

** 

/...merge.../ 

/The rise and fall of quicksilver atoms, the spread and conjunction of life against life. New buds open, old deconstruct and time has no meaning in the slip-slide of creation/ 

/Warmth, pressing sensation calling back from disparate harmony. Focus, re-enter dimension, let space retreat./ 

/Cells diminish into tissue; contrast soft, hard, elastic. Running veins throb beneath the surface - pull back, don't fall in./ 

/The world concentrates to a hand on a cheek, sharply defines then overflows/ 

** 

I open my eyes. 

** 

The first thing I notice is the wind trying to blow through me. 

The second is Blair doing his best to shelter me from it. 

Blair is shorter than I am. It doesn't work. 

It still feels great. 

He smiles, and the hand cupping my cheek caresses gently. 

"Welcome back Jim." 

I am. 

His hand stays a second longer before dropping back into his pocket. 

Nice hand. I like it. 

I know it. Up close and personal. 

I can vouch for that hand. 

"Jim!" He's already twenty feet ahead. 

I catch up with him before he reaches the outcrop. 

** 

We stand together, looking over the gorge. 

** 

"Sandburg, why are we standing three feet from the edge?" 

"Think echo location, Jim. Reflectivity doesn't work unless you're at least -" 

"You hate heights." 

"Uh." 

Good point, bad timing. 

He exhales and his hands clench for a second. "Uh yeah. Yeah. Yeah! But this is different see, this has a... a _railing_." He points to it with a decisive nod. 

"Railing. Just there. See? It's a fence. It holds off the edge. It's a sturdy metal boundary... a boundary, I might add, that defines and *encapsulates * my fear." To prove this, Blair takes three steps forward, breathing heavily. 

I wait as he mutters to himself. "...And there is *no * fear, because it would be stupid to be afraid with this, you know, this protective delineation and all, so no, no fear, none at all, no negative energy and I just...just stand here and - Jesus!" he whirls on one foot and grabs my arm, each word clipped. "Did you have to _remind_ me?" 

I can't help it. I'm grinning. 

"Sandburg," tilting my head to catch a stray sunbeam, "you're too easy." 

"Yeah," he grumbles and turns back to face the rock wall. "Anyway. So where was I?" 

"Holding on to the railing." Try not to sound suggestive. "Holding on to me." 

He drops my arm immediately, trying not to grin. Pretending anger. "Shut up. Yeah." 

He takes a deep breath to center himself, a Sandburgian kind of breath that involves inflating the lungs as far as they can go before blowing out deeply and rhythmically. He hums as he exhales. 

"Mm-mm-mm." He's doing it quietly so as not to embarrass me. Us. Which is nice but sort of stupid considering that we're up here to fine-tune my auditory filters and the sight of two grown men hallooing at Echo Point, then pausing to count and record dissonances is bound to cause some talk. 

"Mm-mm-mm." His voice sounds a little higher outdoors. He has a good voice, not just in the shower. "Mm-mm-mm." 

I take a breath and release it. The air is cool, but not cold, though the wind is strong and Blair has to wear my Jags cap backwards to protect his head. And my coat to keep him warm. And I'm pretty sure those are my gloves he's holding. 

Well, at least the Cascade PD shirt is his. 

I pretend to grumble, but actually I like him wearing my things. It's cute, and while I don't believe that a forty-plus balding cop should use that word in connection with his partner, we've never been conventional. 

For some insane reason, I like to think of him surrounded by me. Blair might call it territoriality. Then again, he might not. 

The man has always surprised me. Like being more beautiful with short hair. Like coming up with a regular weekend schedule for Sentinel tests. Sensory workouts. Shaman-Sentinel time. 

Dissertation or not, Blair insists we keep studying my abilities and making records. For Sentinels and Shamans to come, he says. And while I wouldn't tell him this, I'm glad this part of our life isn't over. Maybe it's only just beginning. 

The humming man looks over his shoulder at me and grins. Hell, I don't have to tell the guy anything. He just. Knows. 

Sometimes, anyway. 

And there are worse ways to spend Sunday. There aren't many people around this early in the morning and I can concentrate on ordinary scents, grass, damp earth; slight whiff of pine scent that has to be Sandburg's odor-aid. 

When I exhale I feel like humming too, but I don't. Then I think, hell with it, and we finish in harmony, Sandburg grinning delightedly. 

The things that make the man smile. 

"Mm-mm-mmmmm!" he does an extra trill. "Mm. Ready?" 

I nod, as always, groaning when he whips out a tuning fork. 

When he begins talking, I listen. 

** 

The next six hours are hard work. We start simply, with single notes and graduate to folksong. Blair records every note I sing back to him, checking the frequency with his pocket oscillometer. 

We continue. 

It used to be that Blair could never stop talking about - well, me. My senses, anyway. Each new discovery or setback made him more enthusiastic than before. To the point where I was seriously thinking of limiting his caffeine intake. 

Now - with each test Blair grows more intense, varying the duration, the repetition, making them more difficult. I groan and obey. After four hours, I give up groaning. 

He tests distance, range and frequency. He warns me against cheating and asks me to move ten meters behind him so he can sing weird chants to the mountain. I'm to listen only to the echoes and sing them right back to him as accurately as possible. At one point I realize I'm singing 'Smooth' backwards, which kind of pisses me off. I also learn how many times 'Old Man River' can bounce back from sandstone and shale. 

There must be some point to all this, but then Blair thinks knowledge for knowledge's sake is reason enough. At least now I know he borrows my Santana tapes on the sly. 

I make a note to buy him a couple for his birthday. Or Christmas. Or next week. Then I have to repeat some African or Amazonian chant which sounds suspiciously like the Macarena in two parts for bass and baritone. 

Blair assures me it's a ritual hymn. I decide not to believe him. 

It pisses him off. 

** 

We're quiet in the truck. Not fighting mad or anything. Just. Quiet. 

Ever since Blair got his badge and we started riding together 'for real', it's become easier to be silent together. Honestly, it's a relief. But sometimes I miss him; I miss grad-student Blair who had endless bits of information and created lop-sided conversations that I had to tune out in self-defense. In a 'sometimes' moment, he told me it was an anthropology thing. First few months in a new culture, it's survival sense to shut up and pay attention. 

Yeah, I told him, except this isn't new. You've been riding with me four years. 

It's still different, he said, threading his fingers through my hair. Not pointing at his gun, but I felt its weight anyway and kissed his shoulder where the holster would have been. 

Now I look at his shoulder, noting that his muscles are better defined than I've ever seen them. Not all changes are bad. 

Some are just irreversible. 

When I reach out and squeeze his hand, Blair doesn't take his eyes off the road, but returns the pressure strongly and evenly, keeping me company until my heart stops racing and my blood pressure drops. 

He holds my hand until I relax and lean back. Let my eyes droop shut. Let Blair drive us home. 

After six hours of having to listen to him sing everything from African farming songs to Brazilian mambo, I figure I deserve a rest. 

** 

No rest for the wicked. I'm peeling potatoes while Blair sits on the counter, swinging his legs slightly. Occasionally he drums his fingers. 

I concentrate on the potatoes. It's soothing to slide the blade under the skin and pull the peel out symmetrically. It's a matter or pride to make all strips the same length. 

Okay, so maybe I'm a little anal. But it's almost like meditation and I wonder if maybe Blair has a theory on this. Zen and the art of potato peeling. Vegetables I have met on the road to nirvana. Then again, Blair thinks tofu is nirvana, which is strange for someone whose shaman spirit is a wolf. 

I decide not to let him know I'm being converted. 

** 

I'm just getting used to the silence. He surprises me when he speaks. 

"You could be anyone, you know." 

His voice is soft. Thoughtful, like he's just figured out something he should have already known. When I put my potato down to look at him, his face is this shy of expressionless. 

"Explain that to me." 

He drums on the counter-top. "You. Could be anyone. Or anything. Do you know that?" 

I'm still waiting for the explanation. 

Blair ticks off each point on the fingers of his free hand. "I sang Old Man River in a whisper. You told me how many times it echoed off the rock and came up with an accurate decimation frequency. Which words got lost in each repetition and the order in which they did," he adds for my benefit. 

I thought that was what he wanted me to do? 

Except he's looking at me accusingly. "I spent all week preparing these tests. I calculated it all. Distance from our position to rock walls, approximate density of sandstone. I factored in air resistance. The frequency of the tuning fork. I used _lunch breaks_ to come up with all possible variables. And you," his finger points at me like a sentence of doom. "You *corroborated * my results." 

Okay... 

He's clearly waiting for an answer. 

"Sorry?" I hazard. 

The finger crooks up for silence. Wrong answer. 

"You hummed every note back at me. In perfect thirds. Twenty-seven times at least. You have perfect pitch. Of course you do. And you even sound better _outside_ the shower." 

He's upset. Annoyed. 

I'm confused. And - 

(afraid) 

"You have an eidetic memory, or one that can simulate total recall. You can filter taste, sound, texture and scent. You can tell the difference between most of the elements in the damn periodic table. Hell, you can probably identify them all. In seconds. Accurately." 

I look at him. 

He explodes. 

"For Christ's sake, Jim, don't you get it? If anyone wanted to know what splitting the atom _looked_ like, they'd just have to ask you! There is no *limit *, man, no human limit to what you could be. What you could do. If you wanted to. Whatever you wanted to." he snarls. "Including parasailing!" 

Blair... 

"Blair. I -" 

"You!" That finger shaking is beginning to annoy me. "You're probably or could be a better tenor than Pavarotti. You could conduct the Philharmonic if you wanted and every single instrument would be in tune! You could be the world's best diagnostician! Tell trauma with a single touch! You could dance. Write music. Go back to school and ace every examination you wanted to because there's nothing that's impossible for you to remember!" 

I cock my head, trying to keep my voice even. Don't lose it, don't shake, don't shake... 

"These exams, Chief. Would they allow you to sit behind me and put me into trance states? Because that'd be the only way I'd ever remember anything -" 

He rolls his eyes. "Jim. Please. You don't need me touching you or grounding you. You don't." 

This is getting complicated. "I don't?" 

"You don't. Anyone can bring you out of a zone. Hell, you don't even zone much, unless you want to, or, or think it's necessary or something. You don't need me to, to experience your senses. You just -" 

He stops, shoulders vibrating with tension. I wait, but he doesn't go on. 

Stepping forward till I'm in his space, within reach of the area enclosed by his legs, I encourage him to say it. "Go on, Chief. Go on..." 

He deflates. Slumps. 

"You just don't need me, man." 

Which pisses me off. 

For one thing, I don't want to be a piano tuner. 

For another, just who jumped into the water first? 

I don't mean that. I cross my arms and glare at him. "Blair. I don't want to be an opera singer. Or a piano tuner." 

He glances up at me, then back down again. 

"Hey!" I grab his chin in one hand, not forcing him to look at me, but letting him know I'm still there. 

He looks up and damn him, I crack. 

I want to hug him. I want to kill him or fuck him senseless. 

I settle for teasing. 

It's hard. 

"I don't want to inspect diamonds or split atoms. I don't want to - to tune pianos." 

His mouth quirks. "I said conduct the Philharmonic." 

"Whatever, Chief. It's all tuning pianos." I feel my mouth move in an answering smile. Keep it light. Keep it easy. "I'm where I want to be. Doing what I want to do. All of it." 

And then I freeze. Finally getting it. 

Because that's me, isn't it. Fifty miles behind the marathon and in a different city. 

"Welcome to my reality, James." 

He didn't say it. I don't think he said it. 

If he did - 

I swallow and think about stepping back. Running really far away. He catches that and freezes too, so of course I don't dare move and it might even be funny if it wasn't so damn pathetic. 

His lips move first. I'm amazed what with the chill in the air. 

"You don't need me. Do you?" 

Do I. Need you. 

Sometimes, Sandburg. I really hate you. 

Air gusts through my lips and I realize I'm attempting to form words. To tell the son-of-a-hippy-flower-child exactly what he needs to hear. 

"Damn straight, Chief." Swallow. How hard can it be to swallow? "Damn straight, I don't need you." 

Asshole. 

Fucker. 

Course I don't need you. Any minute now, I'm gonna turn around and walk away. 

You fucking. Asshole. 

Something in my tone, in my face must get through to him, because his face contorts and he opens his arms to me, saying as I reel, "Don't need me...You just want me... oh fuck, Jim, you want me -" and he's tall enough, sitting on the counter, for me to lean into him and rest my head in the junction of his neck and shoulder, so we can hold and breathe as he pats my head, mumbling, "You big lug... you *idiot * Jim... want me, you want me... fuck you, you want me..." 

His words are muffled as he kisses my hair and rubs his nose against my ears and generally affirms me. But that's okay, because I'm listening to him. And sometimes I even hear what he says. 

Asshole. 

I hate him. 

Need him. Want him. 

He wants me too, I think. 

** 

The fabric of Blair's shirt is soft as I nuzzle him. These are the comforts I allow myself now, the holding and the touching, the opening of wounds and the strangely painful healing. Together, we're stronger than I ever dreamed. Harsher. Older. 

He makes me weak at the knees. 

I breathe, inhaling his scent, and tasting warmth, hearing the scratchiness of his mouth kissing my head and his hands running over me, petting me to him. 

I feel him swallow before I hear it, feel the tensing of throat muscles just above my cheek and tighten my hold on him, knowing what's coming. 

"Sometimes..." he says and swallows again. I hold, encouraging. "Sometimes it scares the hell out of me. That the dials aren't enough, that you're going beyond what I can give you. That one day I'm just _there_ and maybe you'll ask me for an answer and I won't have it, and it - it scares me, man, that I can't keep up with you. And then what _sucks_ ," and he stops to check if he can say this, which of course he can, he doesn't need me kissing his neck to help him, but grounding is a two way thing and anyway he smiles a bit, like it hurts, "What really, really _sucks_ is that sometimes I just know you don't need me. That maybe you never did. Not like *need *, need, I'm not oxygen, I know that, but need like need me, y'know, I think you never needed me so what am I doing - and I can't think when you do that Jim, so maybe you'd better stop, no Jim, really please..." and he laughs, but I can hear the constriction in his throat. 

I press a kiss to his shoulder and a finger to his lips, just to keep him off balance and quiet long enough for me to straighten up. I look at him, keeping his thighs in contact with mine. Contact is important. 

"Sometimes you're an asshole, Chief." 

I tell him this with a straight face and a bleeding heart, so of course he bursts out laughing. Real laughter and it feels good, strange, but good, so I wait for him to finish. 

He quiets when I take his jaw in my hand and run my thumb slowly along the crease of his lips. 

"I need you. I want you. I like to have you touch me. So maybe now -" He parts his lips for me and I savor the sweeter texture. " - now it's all mixed up. I don't care. You bring me out. I don't analyze it." 

(Liar ) 

I continue. "We're good together, Chief. And I need you." It slips out. "But sometimes -" 

"Sometimes I can be a real asshole," he agrees before biting down gently on my thumb. 

I moan and move closer into the shelter of him. 

We hold but don't merge. 

** 

"What do you want?" he asks me a while later. We're nuzzling again. This is a good position for it. Me in the crook of Blair's shoulder, whuffling into his skin, he with his arms around me, murmuring into my ear. 

It's called cuddling. Guys do it on occasion. Lots of occasions if I can help it. 

Blair tugs on my earlobe with his teeth. Gently, but the response is immediate. 

"Hey. Big guy. What do you want?" 

I angle myself slightly, letting my dick press into his thigh. Nice just to hold for a moment, to anticipate and feel the waiting ache. Sometimes it's nice. This is one of those times. 

He's getting hard too. In a second - I close my eyes in anticipation \- in a second the air will be warmer, heavy with what I suppose are pheromones. It's a good scent when it's Blair-scent. 

Right on schedule... 

I press my nose into his neck and breathe. 

One hand holds me into him, the fingers of the other trail lightly down the back of my neck. He traces an imaginary line into the front and comes to rest with his thumb lightly pressed into my carotid. 

"You wanna?" he asks. 

I nod gratefully and let his skin warm my lips. 

Above me, Blair closes his eyes and leans back slightly. The angle shifts so I can cover more of him. 

I smile and take a kiss for luck. Then, I let go. 

** 

The first thing I forget is his pulse. The heart is a strong organ, but the beat soon reduces into unsteady whooshes and the wobbling sound of uneven spurts through arteries. 

I pause a while to let the smell of his arousal and the warmth of his skin touch me. But I have to let them go. They're too big for where I need to be, and later is enough time, in our bed, touching, holding, tasting. 

I go deeper, reaching further still, feel texture change, stretch and become alive. 

The last thing I lose are words and description. 

** 

... 

/...Cells live and die; they bud and elongate, move and separate, living cities in flesh. Closer, home in on anxiety, on the rapid fluttering motion, the insoluble mystery of tangibility/ 

/nerves freeze and burn in hunger to catalogue and understand the insurmountable... where heart speeds and I is lost because I, who is I in the mystery of this universe/ 

/Through structure and macromolecules, to the identity of elements, to the infinite space between atoms where time is glacial and ever-quick and all definitions lose credibility.../ ... 

** 

"Jim." 

** 

... 

** 

"Jim." 

** 

/ hand/ 

** 

"Jim?" 

** 

/voice/ 

** 

"Come home, Jim." 

** 

/...One stream of consciousness pulls back through the death of atoms and the rearrangements of life, through the creation of elegance and the continuation of self to a state of being, when being was nearly lost and/ 

/Focus.../ 

/Resolves/ 

/Affirming.../ 

/Identity/ 

/Returns/ 

** 

I open my eyes 

** 

The initial shock is always bad, and this time I could have fallen, except Blair was prepared and I ended up kneeling, my head in his lap, nearly but not completely brushing his erection. 

I'm not ready for the reality of it yet, so I don't breathe, I dial down, then I have to inhale suddenly and it hits me, huge and hard and I groan, groan into his covered flesh, begging and scrabbling with hands and mouth, mumbling into him 

And he's holding me through it all, petting, soothing me, calming, all the while thinking with too bright eyes - what do you see Jim? 

** 

And the two shall become one flesh 

** 

Tell me what you see, Jim. 

** 

The two becoming one flesh 

** 

Time moves in jerks and starts, but we're suddenly in Blair's old room, on his bed, our mouths fused, and Blair, he's there for me to taste and touch and scent and all of it. 

I tell him, as I always tell him, without words, while madly tugging and pushing his clothes aside in my need to reconnect to his skin... I have no words, but what he suspects is what I can't tell him, that for moments, brief moments, after dancing in the infinite spaces between his being, I can see, I can feel, I can hear him touch him see him as he 

And the grief of losing contact is too much for me, which he knows, so he dives, and connects me, skin on skin. 

I breathe. 

We lose clothes ungracefully, we fall onto each other and I hold tight wishing for that moment again when he seems vast, huge, able to hold me, take me inside and keep me safe there forever. 

At some point I'm crying aloud and his mouth is sealing me tight so I let go 

/shatter/ 

And the two are made of one flesh 

** 

I hate letting him go. 

** 

In Paraguay or a country much like it, they broke my ribs and shot me in the leg before locking me in a cage four feet high, and throwing away the key. 

I broke the arms of the men who finally released me. 

It's taken months to get us to this point, where he can spend the night in the same bed and I can sleep, wrapped around him. 

(Don't ever say I don't need) 

** 

"What do you see?" he asks gently, his palm making flat circles up and down the column of my spine. I shiver and let him draw the blanket up over us. 

"Why do you..." and the sentence trails off, because I've never told him. About the hunger inside. That he was right, I've always been two people and he's the other one, and if he could just - hold me like he's doing now - maybe this could work. 

(Don't say I don't need you, Blair) 

He should know this already. _He_ told me. 

Asshole. 

Fucker. 

It wasn't meant to be an invitation. 

** 

"Tell me what you feel." 

He always wants to know, his body pressing into mine, the hairs on his chest scratching enervating little points in my skin, the sound of each vibration a note on a subsonic scale. Music, he makes music, and I'm left hearing it. 

"Hot," I tell him truthfully. "Need you." 

I do, and he does. It's enough. And I replay the instant of stretching, of muscles giving, of push and pull and need and yearn and the throbbing, minute spasms of contractions, mine and his. 

"Tell me what you feel." 

I do. Without words. 

** 

"Where do you go?" he asks me. 

I want to ask him, how long was I there? 

"You're different. When you come back," he says, still on top of me. I nod. Feels nice. I like him to be there. 

"Do you mind?" I ask after a while, but he thinks I mean he should get off, which I don't. I grab his hand. 

"Do you mind it?" (Mind that I go inside you. That I come back. Half of me and all of you. Or the other way around) 

(Do I feel your thoughts in my head and do you feel me in yours? Do you mind that I can. That I can do what I want to. Every time. But what I want to do is be inside you. Do you mind that? Every time?) 

Where does he go? And am I there? 

He rubs his face into my shoulder, slipping off me, but holding my wrist firm. 

"Sometimes I wonder what you see in there, James." 

I bring his palm to my mouth to help me remember. He lets me kiss the inside of his wrist. 

"Blair." I tell him, and he waits for more. Except there isn't. It's what I see. 

"I... can't." I try again for him. Then, it hits me and I stumble over simple words. 

"I need you." And one hand covers my mouth so he can push me onto my back and crawl on top of me, pressing his head to my chest. 

He hears my heartbeat. I can feel him smile. Let myself relax into full bodied skin against skin. 

I press him close and feel him there. Wondering what he can hear and if he could ever tell me. If I'd understand him if he did. 

He smiles into me and nuzzles. 

We sleep for a while. 

** 

"Why," I ask him later, over potato salad and grilled cheese sandwiches. Ruins of dinner. Nice ruins, though. 

He lifts an eyebrow and I have to explain. "Why did you tell me that. Today." 

He shrugs. My turn to quirk an eyebrow. 

"You're not going to like this, Jim," he warns me. I shrug. 

He exhales. "Okay." 

"Sometimes..." he pauses to see how I'm taking it. He hasn't said anything yet. 

"Sometimes ..." and I think it's coming now. The accusation. How much he's given up for me. What he's never said yet. What I haven't brought up. Lifestyle changes. Shorter hair. A man in his bed, who used to throw him out of it. All the fucked up months.Of sometimes hating - I hate it too - how much we need each other. Want each other. Some crazy mix. 

I hate it too. Sometimes. If he says it - 

I hold my breath as he speaks. 

** 

"Sometimes I'm just an asshole," he says slowly, and I can breathe again. 

I smile. Cuff his head. 

We eat more salad. 

"Chief?" I say after a while. 

He looks up. 

"You're my asshole." 

He grins gently at me. "You're mine too." 

I try the words on for size, decide it's not manly to blub. Think, what the hell and lean over to take his hand. 

"Yeah, Chief," I tell him earnestly, then pause, not sure how to say it. 

He comes to my rescue and gives me the words. 

"But not always," patting my hand gently. "Not always. Just sometimes." 

~ End. 


End file.
